


A Three-Patched Problem Of Short Stories

by arindivid



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Mummy Holmes, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is a Dragon, sherlock is a lil adorable bun, soft jawn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 04:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10268594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arindivid/pseuds/arindivid
Summary: What the title says...This is an ongoing online book of my short stories and submissions for the community, Sherlock, on the mobile app Amino. Most of my stories and oneshots revolve around the pairing, Johnlock (Sherlock Holmes & John Watson)...I also post any short stories outside of Amino here too.Expect smut, angst, and fluff in this work.





	1. Soon

**Author's Note:**

> I am "Sherlock Otterbatch" in the community, and I am a member of 221B Writer's Club.  
> In the club the members are given a week to write up a short story/oneshot based on the prompts given to us by the admins. 
> 
> This is my submission entry for the club. The prompt that was given to the people in the club is:  
> "There he was, larger than life, and so much more than I expected."
> 
> Enjoy some good 'ole Johnlock. :)

Sherlock opened his eyes to see John's room in his mind palace. Bright lit, with rectangle-shaped windows and a calming smell of almonds and tea.

John's room was very spacious. It even had a bed and a TV. Besides those, the room was also filled with rows of bookshelves with different types and sizes of books, pictures pinned on the walls, notes (written and typed up), clothing (especially the damn sweaters)... everything about his blogger was all inside this very room.

John Hamish Watson.

What an ordinary man, and yet, caused the only consulting detective to feel certain emotions because of him. Certain emotions like joy, heartbreak, amusement... love. Love was the main emotion that Sherlock felt and still feels when he is around John. And this both surprised him and amazed him.

Sherlock walked around the room, hands clasped behind his back, as he studied the pictures pinned to the walls this time. This time.

You see, Sherlock always visits the "John Room" in his mindpalace when cases don't work for him. When cases start to become a little, dare he says it, boring. And well, Sherlock's main feature of interest was and always is John... because, John never fails to surprise him.

John is like a never-ending case of contradictions and oddity. Unlike other goldfish that waste their lives away with common goldfish things and their vile normalcy, John is a different kind of goldfish. Out of the normal, but still ordinary. A doctor and a soldier. An above-average appearance but with an unpredictable personality.  
And so Sherlock visits the "John Room" from time to time, and observe its trinkets and valuables that revolve around John, and start to pick at a tiny fraction of the character of John Watson.

Today it was John's military history.

Sherlock skimmed his eyes on the overlapping images of John's life through the years, until aha!  
There were three pictures of John in his twenties and early thirties in his army fatigues. Sadly, Sherlock only knew bits of John's military history due to John's reluctance of sharing that particular time period of his life. Sherlock was a bit persistent in finding out about this, and so he tried to search for pictures in John's laptop and John's bedroom outside of his mind palace. He only found those three pictures; one under his bed and the other two in his computer file.

The first picture was of John and his ex-commander Sholto. It was the picture Sherlock found under John's bed. It was a portrait picture, black and white, and pocket-sized. It showed John smiling at the camera, hair illuminated by the harsh sunlight, with Sholto behind him, grinning from ear to ear and looking at John as if he was his world. John had slight circles under his eyes (tired obviously) but he was obviously happy in this picture, and Sholto had the scar on his cheek.

Sherlock felt a gutting emotion in his chest. Jealousy. Sherlock was jealous of him.

Which was utterly ridiculous but... how could he not? Ever since Mary and John's wedding, and watching John's face light up with joy in seeing his commander again.. Sherlock could not help it. Especially when Sholto knew John earlier than Sherlock, possibly longer...

No. Moving on.  
John was his now, the wedding was over, he was back at Baker Street.

Next picture. John with his mates, a group photo, sand everywhere. Oh, this was most likely a recent picture of John in the war.  
Afghanistan. He was in his early thirties, with some of his blond strands having a pinch of silver here and there.

They were five of them altogether, all squatting, John at the far right. All had grim expressions in their faces, with an exception of John, still grim but with a lively spark in his eyes and a tiny curve upward at the right of his mouth. Hm. John was not shot in this picture; he did not look like he was straining to squat on the ground.

And finally, the last picture. John appeared very youthful in this picture, with less wrinkles in the eye area and forehead. His hair literally glowed (no trace of age), and longer strands that stuck up a little. He had a somewhat shy smile on his face, eyes glinting dark blue. John had two women in both sides, (no father... why?), both in similar height. The woman on the left seemed kind and considerate, with modest clothing. That would be his mother.

Sherlock noticed that John and his mother have the same shape of nose and shade of blue in their eyes. The other woman would be Harry then. She was quite bold in her personality and features; sharp cheekbones, streak of hot-red in her short hair, a fierce look in her grey eyes.  
Harry did not look like an alcoholic in this picture; so she was single at this time.  
Sherlock traced two of his fingers across John's lips in the picture.  
He sometimes wished that he met John earlier. To meet the youthful, almost shy new recruit of a soldier. Sherlock would be at uni at that period of time.

But alas. It did not happen.  
However Sherlock would never change any events and experiences that happened between him and John. He would never alter their first meeting at a lab at Barts, or the numerous cases that Sherlock solved with his blogger by his side. Even the worst memories and events.  
Sherlock inwardly shuddered at the thought of those. He then sighed, keeping himself composed and calm.

It is okay though. It is what it is.

Sherlock removed his fingers and left the "John Room", closing the door quietly behind him.

\-----

Sherlock opened his eyelids. He was back at 221B, lying on the couch, with his pyjamas and blue dressing gown on. He glanced towards his left and saw his blogger (and soon to be husband!) sitting on his chair and reading a book. Most of the hair on his head was silver now, with bits of sandy-blond.

John tried to reason Sherlock that he should dye his hair into its original colour because he looked "old" and "unattractive". Which made Sherlock absolutely flabbergasted. Sherlock always thought that John was the most beautiful and extraordinary human being he ever met and loved. How would a simple factor of age change his opinion of John?  
Plus, Sherlock had a few white strands of hair near his ears; it was happening to the both of them.

And John looked adorable and maybe even more attractive with the colour change; Sherlock never failed to express his endearment towards John's greying hair.

Sherlock sighed.

John Hamish Watson.

John Hamish Holmes-Watson.

Soon.

Sherlock chuckled to himself, still not believing that all of this was real.

John gave him a fond look. Oh John.

 

There he was, larger than life and so much more than I expected... Sherlock thought to himself.


	2. Nicotine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for the first week was: "A Strange Meeting". It is to pay tribute to John's first blog post.
> 
> This was my favorite prompt as of this moment. I didn't have an idea when it came to this prompt but then I found a prompt in Tumblr from 'enbarr' and I used this prompt for this submission:  
> "i'm a med student who has a huge crush on the hot guy who works at the coffee shop who always gives me free drinks when i'm stressed and calls me princess even though i pretend i think it's annoying but i'm extremely concerned about him because he always smells like smoke so i always give him lectures about how terrible cigarettes are for you and i may have made a powerpoint which is probably excessive but lung health is extremely important and oops it turns out he's part-dragon or something hahahaha oops" AU
> 
> Enjoy.  
> \- AC

29/01/2010

6:43 AM

So, this is my first time writing on my journal that I received from my therapist. I don't know what to write. Oh right. I'm supposed to introduce myself. Well that's what my therapist, Ella, told me. My name is John Hamish Watson, and I am a 25 year old med student who likes tea and James Bond.  
I find my therapist annoying because I have to write a journal entry every day. Apparently it helps with overcoming my depression by writing stuff down. But really, nothing ever happens to me so...  
I'm just going to get a nice shower, and a nice cuppa before class. I'll have this journal with me though, just to write notes for class.

\-----------

Class starts at 10AM, not the usual time on Tuesday .....

07700 900107 - SH // Nicotine - Panic! At The Disco

Cardiovascular diseases (CVD) are the most common cause of death globally as of 2008, accounting for 30% of deaths.

\------

9:45PM

I, John Watson, have a... crush on this curly-haired bloke who gave me a free cappuccino in the morning.

I know I'm not a writer, and I said earlier that nothing happens to me. But today something did.

Something actually happened. I think I might be mad while writing this, because what I'm going to write here may be outside of the range of normal... but.

His name is Sherlock Holmes, and he is a bloody madman. He also turns out to be a fucking dragon hybrid, after witnessing him almost getting killed by a cabbie after class. I also saved him by shooting a cabbie on the chest using his own gun (where I was supposed to shoot, says he).

And... he asked me to move in with him at 221B Baker Street. At the centre of London. As flatmates. Well, not exactly asked, he more or less demanded to move in with him as flatmates, because I saw his "true identity". I tried to object, but his brother (who is also a dragon hybrid and abducted me to an abandoned warehouse) forced me to live with the charming sod.

This is my last night in this flat then. I am grateful though as this flat has many leaks and electricity outages, but moving in with him? After what I witnessed? (I actually do want to move in with him cause he is bloody fuckable.)

From the very beginning then...

I had a horrible night's sleep. Which is understandable as I had to cram in so much information in my head (specifically the names of all the individual bones in the human body).

Plus other medical things. I also had an appointment with my therapist last night, and talking to my therapist drains me. It leaves me exhausted and just done with life.

So, when one has terrible night's sleep, one needs a fresh cuppa. A very strong cuppa.

So on 7 in the morning, I walked to the nearest cafe (The Elephant) to buy said coffee, opened the doors of the cafe and my eyes laid on the most gorgeous and beautiful man several steps away. The man I would later find out to have the name of Sherlock Holmes.

Before I saw him, I was a calm-headed med student who just wanted a cuppa.

After I saw him, I was a different person. Specifically a flustered, clumsy twat.

I mean, who wouldn't?

His damn cheekbones, his piercing eyes that stare into your very soul, hair a nest of dark-curls... His head snapped up towards me, and I felt like I was in a trance. My feet was glued on the ground. Time stopped, it seemed. And then he smirked, the smirk of "I'm-bloody-attractive-alright-of-course-you-would-be-entranced-by-my-charm" and broke eye contact, and I just took a mouthful of air in.

I was holding my breath the entire exchange.

I then stumbled and almost tripped over nothing as I approached him. There was no-one but me and him this morning; it was too early. I am so relieved though that no-one saw me like that. Really, tripping over nothing? I approached him and asked for any strong cuppa.

He said, "Is that all John?"

And I gave him a shocked look.  
How did he know my name? All I did though was nod and he gave me that smirk again.

I wanted to punch him. But I can't because I didn't want to ruin his pretty face. When he turned his back to make coffee, I observed him. His swift movements. His pale complexion. His arse. He was wearing a purple buttoned-up shirt and trousers, leather shoes, and a cheap badge labelled "Sherlock".

A strange name for an arrogant cock.

When he came back with a cup of coffee, I was about to pay in cash, when he said, in a deep baritone,  
"No, John. You get this cappuccino free."

Again, with knowing my name. I nodded, confused but also irritated. I asked him how he knew what my name was. He said, "Obvious."

And I was done with the ambiguity damnit. He probably saw that I looked ready to punch him so he immediately gave me a series of his deductions about my life and how he knew my name. The man knew who I was. Somehow he knew everything about me.

Seriously, it was that long that I can't write them out because his reply was quick. But it was all true; everything from my therapist, my medical history, almost all was true.  
The only error he had was assuming my sister, Harry, was a male, due to her name. I was still amazed though. Not only was this bloke gorgeous. He was a genius!

I told him this (not the first comment) and he looked incredulous. I asked why, and he said that usually people told him to "piss off" when he tells them their life stories.

I finished my coffee, and we chatted till I had to leave for class. Customers entered a few minutes after we chatted, so he had to pause the conversation to complete some orders. I noticed two things though:

He smells like fucking honey mixed with ash. Sweet, warm, but tainted with the scent of burning cigarettes. I know, why me, a medical student, having a crush on a bloke who smokes in a daily basis. I don't know either, to be honest. I told him that he should limit his usage. Lung health is extremely important! I tell him to stop because smoking five cigarettes every two hours is a death wish. And guess what?

He explicitly told me this fact. He actually said it in my face after I showed him a picture of rotten human lungs from my phone screen. He laughed at my shock. He was laughing at the possibility of his early death! So... no sense of self-preservation then. Also his favourite song was "Nicotine" by something from the disco. No surprise there.

And two, Sherlock Holmes had no concept of personal space. Nor the concept of not being a huge dick most of times. Fine, I may like the scent of ash mixed with honey when he invades my personal space and maybe I find it brilliant that he uses his "science of deduction" to work out who I was and my situation, but it's not difficult right? To not be an annoying dick all the time?

I then walked towards the uni and arrived for class. It was hard enough listening to a teacher with a monotone voice, but it was very hard to listen to the teacher while your mind is thinking about Sherlock who had multi-colored eyes.

I thought that Sherlock's eyes were blue. No. Sherlock had three colors at once, changing from shades of blue and green and grey! In fluorescent light, his eyes appeared to be cerulean. In warm lighting, his eyes appeared to be green-blue. And when Sherlock looks at you, you cannot keep your eyes away from his captivating irises.

After the terrible class, I left the building at 3PM and was kidnapped by a posh, know-it-all stalker, and was driven to the nearest bus stop after the meeting. We had a one-sided chat when he kidnapped me, with me not giving him answers even after the bribery of wealth.

I then headed off to the direction of my crappy flat. I ate a small container of cooked udon from a Chinese takeaway, and decided to continue walking to my flat. Little did I know that I would meet Sherlock Holmes again the second time today, but in an entirely different scenario.

It was evening, the temperature dropped down to a few degrees.

And while I was walking, I saw a shadow of long bat-like wings. At the end of an alleyway in dim lighting. I thought I was hallucinating!  
I ran towards it. I was glad that I ran to the direction of the dark alleyway because there I saw the wings itselves and the owner who had them.

It was Sherlock. His wings were terrifying but beautiful. They were the color of his hair, scales glinting shades of blue and green.

I may have whispered his name out loud, because Sherlock snapped his head towards me, and I saw a glimpse of his eyes that were cat-like. Silver-blue. (He was shirtless during this).

He sprinted towards me and pressed his palm against my gaping mouth. Too warm, as if he had a raging fever. Sherlock shushed me, and muttered instructions to leave but it was too late as I saw the cabbie aiming to shoot at our direction.

I yelled and Sherlock pushed me on the ground; the fired bullet narrowly missing my shoulder.

I heard Sherlock growl with anger. It was inhuman, that's for sure. And sexy as fuck. He swiftly used his wings to create a gust of wind to the cabbie's direction. Which caused the cabbie's gun to skid a few feet near me. It was a blur, but all I remembered was the cabbie and Sherlock fighting, and me grabbing the gun and shooting the cabbie on the chest. If I didn't do that, Sherlock would've died as he was being suffocated.The cabbie's body lay still on the ground; I just murdered someone.

But I felt good after that. Which is so fucked up.

Sherlock somehow made his wings disappear itself from his shoulder blades (he was hissing in agony while he did it), and ordered me to hand him the gun. My hand shook as I gave the gun. He then demanded me to move in with him. I tried to object but my phone rang. I answered. It was the same posh stalker that abducted me. He told me that I would have to move in tomorrow. No exceptions. He hanged up. Sherlock rolled his eyes, informing me that the caller/stalker was his brother. Who apparently was the bloody Queen of England. Who was also a dragon hybrid...?!

Sherlock scribbled his phone number and address onto my journal, picked up his coat Belstaff from the pavement and wore it. He did something with his collar which made him a fucking sex god and left, giving me a wink and a word of thanks.

I may have stood there for a few minutes, still in shock, and left the scene as well.

And now as I write this (my wrist hurts like shit), I still can't believe that actually happened.  
It's mad, all of this. It was so strange.

Oh yes, I have a crush on him. After all of that.  
Yeah. I think I may be mad.

I think I may never be bored again.

\------

30/01/2010

NOTE: Sherlock's condition stops him from having a negative side effect. His lungs don't rot like humans do.But he does get high. Oh hell he does get very high. From the nicotine.


	3. Bullets and Sentiment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My submission for Week 2 went over 2,000 words, which was quite a bummer. I had to delete a chunk of a paragraph of Mycroft's memories and I had to cut out so many stuff.  
> So here is the original version of Week 2's submission for the club.
> 
> The prompt was: "Holmes' Childhood" ; Favorite childhood game, friend (can be human, pet, toy, imaginary friend), family moment. At least write one option (1/3). 
> 
> This has "The Final Problem" (S04E03) spoilers.... expect some fluff and adorableness from Mycroft...  
> \- AC

"Mummy! Mycoff is being annoying!"

Mycroft opened his eyelids to hear the sound of a child's annoyance from behind him. He turned himself around, expensive suit framing his slightly plump figure, and couldn't help his cold persona soften when he saw him.

A young boy, exactly six years and seven months, stood in front of his ordinary parents, arms crossed and looking agitated. He huffed and stomped his bare foot, his nest of curls on his head bouncing. Baggy jumper with red shorts, no footwear covering his pale feet. Short (muddy) legs with the slightest of a knock-knee, knees hovering closer together even when standing straight. On one hand he was clutching his worn pirate hat, the once black fabric fading into a lighter shade from the boy's overuse.

Mycroft took a step closer, lips curling into a smile.

Oh Sherlock...

Mycroft was inside his mind palace, remembering the precious moments of he and his brother's childhood. His chest ached for his transport was trying to keep itself alive. He knew his body wouldn't have long until it reaches its inevitable end... however, he wanted to reminisce the memories, no matter how forgotten and discarded they became in his mind palace. Mycroft took another step closer towards the memory of his little brother. His thick-rounded fingers wavered above his brother's head as he considered whether to feel curls on his scalp. Those curls that never changed throughout the years. The curls were soft, not as coarse, with strands shiny-looking from sun exposure and perspiration. His eyes stung, and he blinked. Mycroft Holmes did not cry.

"Mother! I was only reading!"

Mycroft's brow twitched upwards in disgust. The urge to spill tears was forgotten as he laid his eyes to the owner who said the words. A taller boy, obviously overweight, with cheeks flushed from huge mouthfuls of pudding, walked towards them and stopped until he was next to the younger boy. Eyelids squeezed together, white buttoned-up shirt tucked into the garter of dark trousers, amber hair slicked back. This said boy was Mycroft himself, and he inwardly cringed at his appearance when he was young.

Unlike his brother who received many positive physical traits from their parents, Mycroft had only a few. He only received his mother's eyes and his father's hair. Though Mycroft lacked the physical attractiveness that both of his parents and brother possess, Mycroft was lucky to have the outstanding patience from both of his parents, the latter that Sherlock himself did not possess until much later in his life. Until the man by the name of John Watson.

And so, Mycroft took a step back from the four, watching the scene unfold with his hands behind his back. He sighed, closing his eyes at some points throughout the observation; due to the bullet that was currently inside his rapidly beating heart.

"Mummy," his little brother complained, brows furrowed and pointing towards his younger self, "Mycoff is being his fat self and annoying Redbeeer and me!"

His younger self placed his chubby palm on his chest, seeming offended.

At least I had my manners to not talk with food in my mouth. Mycroft thought to himself, shaking his head in resignation.

"Well excuse me mother and father but, I was only reading Shakespeare and I was not annoying my little brother and his idiotic dog."

Young Sherlock gasped. He then whined, stomping his foot on the wooden floorboards with more force.

"He is my favorite dog! He loves bees and playing pirates with me and Victor! He is not.. Idi-ot-tic. Mycoff is the idiii-ot!"

His father chuckled at his younger son's actions. His wife though was not amused. Seeing this he quickly planted a quick kiss on his wife's cheek before rushing off outside. But not without giving an exasperated look towards his wife.

Certainly Mycroft would do the same as his father did; leaving the difficult children so that his wife could deal with the non-existent problem between the difficult children.

Young Mycroft snorted.

"Pfft you and Victor. God, you both are are inseparable. The three of you, including that stupid dog are insufferable."

"You're stupid." Sherlock admitted, staring up at his brother.

"I'm the stupid one? I am smarter than you little brother."

"No! You're more stupid with your fatness-"

"I am not fat Sherlock."

"Yes you are!"

"At least I don't annoy Mummy."

"Shut up. You're so-"

"Boys!"

The two brothers immediately swiveled their heads to their mother. She had her hands on her hips, giving the two boys a scrutinizing look. With her dark coat billowing behind her, gray-blue irises vibrant and perceptive, she was not a woman that anyone should mess with. Not even her children.

Mycroft sniggered, shaking his head in appreciation. His mother was a kind-hearted soul but also had a fierce side to her character. In contrast with their father's character of gentleness, silly humor, and empathy, their mother was... one of a kind. She can be strict, traditional and orderly. If there was one person that he and Sherlock listen to and have a small fear of during their childhood, it was their mother's wrath and discipline towards their attitude. Mrs Holmes cannot and should not be underestimated.

The boys were silent at her exclamation.

Young Sherlock gaped and young Mycroft bit his bottom lip in anxiousness. They both did not look at each other. They were waiting for their mother's verdict.

Still gaping, Sherlock's tight grip of his pirate hat loosened so that the hat was free from his grasp. He did not dare pick his hat up from the floor.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

Sherlock's shoulders tensed, gulping hard. Mycroft couldn't help but laugh at his little brother's reaction during that memory. His brother was the most insufferable person he ever came to know and yet... when it came to his mother, he was so compliant.

However his younger self thought that he was not in the line of fire, for he took a step back and gave a relieved smile. Mrs Holmes had none of that.

"And Mycroft Holmes. Come back here."

His younger self froze and took a step forward instead. He looked down, shuffling his feet in discomfort.

"Good. Now the both of you. You are both idiots and you both annoy me." Their mother stated, lips set into a grim line.

"But Mummy-"

"Mother, I-"

Mrs Holmes raised her pointer finger, not allowing the two to complain.

"You both are idiots and you would continue to be idiots when you both are being mean towards each other. I did not raise my two sons to be nasty adults towards each other. Mycroft is not "fat", Sherlock," she says, patting Mycroft on the shoulder. "And Sherlock, his friend Victor, and especially his dog Redbeard are not insufferable Mycroft."

Mrs Holmes also patted Sherlock's shoulder. She then gripped both of her boys' shoulders tight, the both of them wincing at how tight their mother was gripping their shoulders. Young Sherlock was even more afraid than before. She stared at the both of them in the eye, irises losing all of its warmth.

"Now, the both of you, apologize. Tell each other that you won't do this again, and confirm it to me as well. Mycroft, you would not have pudding for a whole year. Sherlock, you would not have playtime with Victor or Redbeard for two months if you don't do this."

Mrs Holmes removed her iron grip on her boys' shoulders and crossed her arms, looking down at them with expectation. Young Mycroft sighed, opened his mouth but closed it again, giving his mother a pleading look. Mrs Holmes raised a brow in return.

On the other hand Sherlock appeared devastated about the serious consequences if he did not follow his mother's instructions. His eyes were teary-eyed and his pirate-hat still lay forgotten on the floor beside him. The previous display of irritation towards his brother vanished in seconds. He then composed himself, turned to his brother, and whispered,

"I'm sorry Mycoff. For calling you fat and stupid. I won't do this again Mycoff," Sherlock gave a defeated glance to his mother, pouting sadly. "Mummy, I won't do this again."

Mycroft's... heart melted a bit, swallowing his tears. He was still watching his memory unfold before him, and he could not move from his spot. Nor he would even try if he could.

Young Mycroft, slight taken aback by his brother's cooperation, said, "I'm sorry Sherlock. You and your friends are not insufferable. Your dog is not idiotic. Not you too. I won't do this again." He sighed, looking from his teary-eyed brother to his strict, loving mother.

Mycroft could remember on that moment that he had an urge to comfort his little brother. To wipe away his tears. To at least give him an embrace. Even if it was an un-Mycroft thing to do.

With that, Mrs Holmes gave them a proud smile, uncrossing her arms and ruffling up their hair. The cold look in her eyes was gone.

"You boys... Please try not to hate each other. You both are so different yet bright... but you both need each other. Mycroft and Sherlock, you are brothers. Yes?"

"Yes." Young Mycroft stated, relieved that their mother didn't give them extra punishments.

"Yes Mummy." Sherlock whispered again, sniffling. He picked up his pirate hand on the floor, and wore it on his small head.

"Alright. I'll make some pudding and cookies and call you both in when it's ready."  
Mrs Holmes smiled again to the two boys, kissed them on their foreheads, before walking to the kitchen.

Young Sherlock and Mycroft stared at each other, gazes unwavering. Instantly, Sherlock threw his little arms around Mycroft's chubby middle, pressing his nose onto the white fabric and spreading snot and fresh tears onto it. Young Mycroft's body instinctively recoiled, arms slack against his sides. A few seconds later, he awkwardly wrapped his arms around Sherlock's lithe body, sighing, carding his fingers through thick curls.

They were both embracing each other, the older Holmes rubbing his hands up and down on Sherlock's clothed back, while the other was still sniffling and sobbing.  
They did not say any words during this, nor any words after that, and beyond doubt did not say any words about the incident between them.  
It was only them together, as brothers, no complaints and no arguments.

Mycroft stood on his spot, unmoving. The only thing that made him twitch somewhat was the pain spreading from his chest to every part of his body. The bullet.

Mycroft's body was going into shock. He was going into shock already but he tried to slow down the shock's effects for as long as he can. By replaying this one moment that caused Mycroft to remember this memory in its exact details. This memory that just... affected him so much, even as a middle-aged adult.

I would never see my brother again. I would never see Sherlock again.

I would never see him and his doctor again.

I would never see Sherlock happy with his John.

And Rosie.

His eyes wetted with moisture until he felt cool tears staining his cheeks.  
Mycroft Holmes did not cry. But now he was. He really was.

The feeling of sentiment clawed at his chest, warm yet suffocated his entire being. Why must sentiment affect him like this?

Closing his eyes, Mycroft bit his lip and clenched his fist beside him. He was overwhelmed by emotions and sentiment. Mycroft was grateful that he replayed this particular memory before he...

Mycroft winced. He leaned against a wall, muttering out curses. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and it was getting louder...

... and it was slowing down.

Memories flashed before his eyes. And it hurt.

He and Sherlock playing with Redbeard, Sherlock yelling, "Myc-eee!" as he and Redbeard chased after Mycroft in the green hills...

Sherlock (seven years old) sleeping on his bed, snoring quietly, with him watching over his younger brother as he had a nightmare about his sister kidnapping Victor and Redbeard. In which Redbeard really did got kidnapped by their sister, and dumped his fragile body down a well; he was dead when Mycroft found him...

...Sherlock in his teens wearing dark clothes and eyeliner under his eyelids, looking up at Mycroft pleading acceptance; he came out as gay, and he was wrapping his arms around his legs, hoping that his older brother would understand...

...Mycroft picking up Sherlock from the concrete floor, mumbling curses as this was Sherlock's first overdose. His brother was quite light in weight, too light, with his body resembling a similar appearance to a malnourished corpse...

... Sherlock grinning from ear to ear, fixing up his suit and hair, excited to come back to his John after two years. But then weeping in an alleyway, furiously wiping tears and blood from his broken nose because his lover rejected him. Mycroft saw this memory through the surveillance, and his chest ached as he surveyed his brother who owned a broken heart...

..Looking through the eyes of his brother and seeing the bullet shot from the gun and enter inside his most vital organ in slow motion; Sherlock's eyes pleading "I'm sorry" and "I don't want to do this, but I have to". It was either Mycroft or John, his brother or his lover. Mycroft was expecting Sherlock's choice to shoot him but it still hurt.

Mycroft blinked.

He was dying. He was going to leave his brother behind.

All lives end... and it was his life that was ending now.

All Mycroft saw last was he and his brother embracing in his mind palace before his vision went black.

I'm sorry Sherlock... It's alright if you choose John and not me.


	4. A Study In Crimson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This submission was quite sad. Must read with caution. This fic might trigger a few. While writing this I was quite in an angsty mood due to the abomination of an episode, "The Final Problem". It's a literal problem in an episode.
> 
> This is seriously what I think would've happened if Sherlock and John never met.  
> Ah... Moffat and Gatiss. Such queerbaiting... how does one just not see the romance between these two characters, Sherlock and John? If John was a woman and everything that happened between them happened the same... it's just that John was a woman then everyone would see the romance between them. But no. Johnlock wasn't go.
> 
> However I would not let two writers just diminish Sherlock and John's beautiful moments and bond. I will continue to write and stay in the fandom.
> 
> *sighs* The details of the prompt are: "What would have happened" ; Pick a character and write about how different their life would be without something significant happening to them. E.g If Sherlock hadn't met John, how would he be different? What if Sherlock hadn't become a consulting detective? 
> 
> Enjoy...  
> \- AC

_I don't know where I'm at_   
_I'm standing at the back, tired of waiting..._   
_Waiting here in line, hoping that I'll find_   
_What's I've been chasing..._

John sighs, dark bags under his eyes as he sits on his wooden chair, opening up his laptop screen slowly. He had another nightmare about the war in Afghanistan.

He was wearing his robe, sandy-blond strands sticking up on his head. Clasping his fingers together under his chin, he types up on his blog as he was forced to by his therapist. His therapist was quite... irritating, to say the least.

He types first with the title,

**Serial Suicides**

Yes. Serial Suicides. Suicide. The former army doctor glances to his right, looking longingly towards the only escape that he could see. A Browning L9A1. In his right-side drawer, just a few feet away from him. John closes his eyes and opens them again.

He has not closed the drawer like he usually does every morning.

John sighs. He then types with his calloused fingertips,

**There's been another of those 'serial suicides'. It's weird. There doesn't seem to be any connection between the deceased. It doesn't make sense.**

Well, it kind of does. Who wouldn't just end this short life that one has due to the never-ending ache of uselessness and worthlessness sitting heavy in their chest? Who wouldn't want to make the voices in their head of their ghosts of their past disappear by just a faulty finger of the trigger? Who, in their goddamn mind, would want to remember the ones they have failed in their lives... and let those memories stay with you every single day you live in this world? It does make sense.

John continues typing, fingers shaking with hard purpose.

**Met up with Bill Murray. Not the film star. He was the nurse who saved my life when I was shot. He's got married.**

John bites his bottom lip, fist clenching. Bill Murray is married. To a perfect wife. They're expecting a child on the way. A baby girl.

He hisses, licking his lips and shakes his head, taking another glance at his escape that just glowed brightly from the distance.

**Stuff's happening to other people.**

Yeah, stuff's always happening to other people. All the time.  
John did not hesitate as he immediately clicks the 'Publish' button on the right side of his screen, as he leans back on his creaking chair.

Done. Finished. What now.

John planned to have a morning jog, grab a cheap cuppa down the road, and chat to his rugby lads that he came across in the pub three days ago.

That was not going to happen now.

He huffs, closing his eyes.

He wishes he haven't for his mind instantly whirled back through the nightmares of the war. And his family. Harry, his father, his mother. 

 

John cradling a dying soldier in his arms, as he attempted to save a fellow soldier from a fatal gunshot wound. His face was littered with mud and blood, his neck spitting out crimson, dry lips pleading for help. John was applying pressure against the wound but he knew it was too late. He was dead a few minutes later...

...John snogging a tall, pale soldier with the soldier backing him up against the wall, both of them groaning and pulling off each other's uniform one by one. With both of their torsos exposed, the soldier came to a sudden fit of repulsion as he punched John square in the face, and grabs his dirty clothes and yells, "Sod off faggot!" to John, even when it was the soldier who initiated that in the first place...

...John and Harry arguing over Harry's drinking problem, her screaming at John that he was always the favorite child and that she wasn't. She was pushing him away from her and her wild nest of a hair was losing its vibrancy of blonde...

...John, in his teens, being told off by his father that having a boyfriend is an abomination. He was smacked in the face by his father, looking fearfully up at him as his father spat and threatened to hurt his recent boyfriend. John was about to come out as bisexual at that time, as his sister encouraged him too...

...John seeing his mother fade from his very eyes, as she lay there on her hospital bed, pale with none of her usual tan. She croaked out her final words of, "I love you." before her heartbeats went into a standstill, the heartbeat monitor beside her hospital bed echoing the loss of rhythm. He stayed with his mother that day, and his mother died nearing his tenth birthday on March.

John gasps, eyes moistening, looking above at the white ceiling. He bangs his clenched fist against the desk in front of him, the force of his action making his mug of coffee and apple shake on the desktop. He sighs, shaking his head and glances back at the gun.

 

_Not ready to let go_   
_Cause then I'd never know_   
_What I could be missing_   
_But I've been missing way too much_   
_So when do I give up what I've been wishing for...._

John Watson is a reserved man. Quiet and military-raised man. He expected to die in battle, to fight for one's country, to die while saving people. What he did not expect was himself contemplating to live or die back in London, without the danger of the war distracting himself and his self-hatred. But John did not want to let go. He had been wishing for a miracle, a small miracle... it hasn't come.

Yet.

What is the point of living when your purpose of living has been taken away from you right your very eyes? When you are reduced to a cripple of a soldier, talents and experience wasted from one single shot to the left shoulder?

As if the weapon was calling to him, John reaches out and grips the handle of the gun, testing for its inconsistencies. He should just do it and get it over and done with.

This was his worst choice he could ever take to action. John Watson did it anyways.

A loud bang was heard from across the street.

On the other side of London, a consulting detective was heading off to his own place, a phone in his hand as he chatted to a colleague about sharing a flat. He was talking to Mike Stamford. Why would anyone want him as a flatmate?

He asks this question on the phone, tightening his navy-blue scarf around his neck.

Little did he know that his potential flatmate and his blogger was dead right at this moment and that he would soon overdose from cocaine a week later. Because he was called a "freak" many times, and for once he actually believed it. 

 

In another universe, an alternate universe, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson would have met at a lab at Bart's, and moved in together at 221B Baker Street. They would have saved each other many times, and they would have been the two of them against the world.  
A love story that would never have existed if they would not have met.


End file.
